Life of Zeek
by Wheatbread
Summary: The Far Side. A struggling writer rediscovers himself and, in the process, conquers a nasty case of writer's block. Please read and review. I know there are others of you out there who live on the Far Side!


_I do not own The Far Side or any characters in this fanfiction. This is an expansion on one of the comic scenarios from Gary Larson's The Far Side._

**Life of Zeek**

Furry paws punched at tiny buttons. Slender claws clicked against delicate keys, but still the dog wondered, _What should I write?_ It was a question he had been asking himself a lot lately. The trash basket was overflowing with crumpled sheets of paper, some half-typed, some blank. The more recent ones were all blank. Just now, the dog had been hitting keys at random, anything to try to jump start a lost and dying creativity. But it was useless. There was just something missing.

The brown, floppy-eared pooch finally pushed himself away from the desk and gazed about the room. It was a disaster area as usual. When his master got home he would get heck for the mess, but it wasn't like he had planned to be bad. He'd had writer's block for a week now, after all, and no inspiration. Zero. Zilch. _Zippity doo doo_. Nothing. He deserved a little reprieve every now and then, didn't he?

And it also wasn't like he hadn't tried, either. The mess was just a reflection of that effort, the proof. Any canine or cat, walking in on the scene, would have known immediately what was going on. These were only the signs of a frustrated animal trying to get his "zoe" back, his life, his spark. Indeed, the signs of Zeek's missing zoe were everywhere: the floor was littered with shredded toilet tissues. There was slobber on everything. The sofa pillows had long since suffered a violent disgorging of their stuffing.

The dog had even tried gnawing on the wooden part of the recliner's armrest. Nothing worked—although the wood did have an interesting taste and he had already made plans to do all the chairs in the dining room as well—_but ideas!_ Ideas just weren't coming! Now, with all the paper and stuffing, the house was getting to look like a regular winter wonderland. The dog sighed, _maybe Master will like the new decos. _But even as the thought tiptoed its way 'cross his canine mind he felt his own tail cease its wagging. He knew it wasn't true.

Zeek craned forward and bit into the most recent mishmash of alphabet-riddled paper and chewed it up in frustration before dropping it onto the wastepaper basket. He pushed his reading glasses off with a hind leg_. Perhaps I just need to make a little trek out to the yard_. He wasn't ready to give up just yet, but he was close. He'd been in that house for days now. A dog needed a break every so often. Somehow, inspiration would just have to find him…hopefully, maybe.

_"Write what you live. Live what you write."_

The words of his writing coach came floating back to him as he climbed through the pet door. They often did in times like this, but what did they mean? He had never quite gotten them_. How can you write what you live if you're a dog?_ A dog's life is dull, dull, dull! And Zeek ought to know, he was sure living it.

But, things were different once he got outside. Out in the yard, the birds sang to him. The flowers greeted him. Interesting smells met his nose. It was like a chorus of Life calling out to him, "Here you are, finally! Where have you been keeping yourself? Come bask in the glory of what you are, for you were created to find pleasure in us, designed to be pleased by us."

So Zeek began sniffing around and was soon lost in the wonderment of what it was just to be a dog again. It was a good feeling. Unconsciously, he was letting it all go, the deadlines, the workload. He suddenly didn't care if he never wrote again.

The dog's back was to the gate when the first molecules of the familiar smell reached him. _Ahhhhh,_ he had forgotten all about _that_ smell. _That_ smell was the spice of life. _That_ smell was the wuzzle on one's muzzle. Zeek turned, as if in a trance, and sure enough here came the mailman, slowly up the walk, chubby fingers working the latch. Slowly, very slowly the gate opened, and then...they were in the yard together. Zeek knew this man's smell like the drug that it was to him. The warm stench of it washed over him, making his mind to reel. It was the smell of…_fear!_

He knew those soft, plump calves, those tender ankles. They began calling to him, hypnotically, "Zeeeeeeeek, Oh Zeeeeeeek…." And yet Zeek lingered, bathing in the scent that would soon master him and control his every move during the next few glorious minutes.

"Zeeeeeeek," sang the calves, as the Mailman waddled quickly as he could toward the front porch where the mailbox was located, fastened on the lattice. "Zeeeeeeek, Oh Sleek Dog, Oh!…Bite us, Zeek….Biiiiiiiiiiite uuuuusssssss!"

He could stand it no longer. Zeek glided forward toward the struggling fat man, standing on tippy-toes now to reach the box. _Tooth subsides to gum. Ahh, sink now into those begging legs and taste those tender calves._ It had all been decided for him. It was in his genetic make-up. He could not resist the call, for after all, a dog is a dog…is only a dog.

A half an hour later, a now rejuvenated canine perched at the typewriter once again. He had been out in the yard. He had lived again. Now…and only now could he write. And he knew just what to say. Furry paws once more pounded at buttons, claws clicking on tiny plastic keys. This time there was no hesitancy. The dog sat back to admire his title. It read:

"Call of the Calf"

by Zeek

He chuckled to himself, remembering. '_Bite us, Zeeeeek, Biiiiiite ussssss!'_ Then, leaning forward again, he watched in wonder as his claws took up their posts on the home row as if drawn there magnetically. He started typing again, slowly at first but gaining momentum, whispering the words in voiceless awe as they ticked forth: "I…sensed…the...mail… man's…fear…as…"


End file.
